


Bottoms Up

by Brenda



Series: Everything Is Bigger In Texas [1]
Category: Supernatural RPF
Genre: Anal Sex, And Boys From Texas, Blow Jobs, Bottom Jensen Ackles, Cocky Jensen, Competition, Drinking Games, Hand Jobs, Love Letter To The South, M/M, Past Jensen/Chris, Rimming, Set during S1, Sexual Tension, Top Jared Padalecki, Topping from the Bottom, all the sex, smut and humor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-18
Updated: 2013-08-18
Packaged: 2017-12-23 22:43:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,297
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/931941
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Brenda/pseuds/Brenda
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There are things Jared knows.  Jensen isn't one of them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bottoms Up

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted on LJ in February of 2006.

_"Well I don't know how they do it_  
_But they sure do it good_  
_I hope they do it for free"_  
\-- Ted Nugent

 

_So, the setup goes something like this –_

 

Jared and Jensen always get together on Saturday night. Always. Come rain, sleet, snow, killer bees, fourteen hour shooting days, murderous rages, blahblah, whatever. At the end of the week? Jared and Jensen go drinking. It's tradition, like steak chili and cornbread on Halloween or singing "Take Me Out To The Ballgame" during the seventh inning stretch, and Jared and Jensen follow it just as religiously.

The religion of beer and tequila.

Jared's mama's always been fond of telling him he needs to go to church more.

 

_You know why they call 'em clichés, right? Because they're true –_

 

Jared's Texan, right. Simple as that. Not _just_ Texan, like, yeah, he calls Texas home, but _Texan_ Texan – college football, muscle cars, sweet iced tea, big-ass belt buckles, mesquite barbeque, and he'd put himself up against all comers in just about anything you could name.

And then he meets Jensen.

Now Jen? If possible, that boy's even _more_ Texas than Texas itself. Talks louder, laughs longer, has tall tales the size of Paul Bunyan's balls, eats straight-up grease for breakfast and can still run laps around everyone on set. Jensen knows seventeen thousand uses for duct tape, knows how to swear and spit with the best of 'em, he can throw a perfect spiral, change the oil in an F150 in fifteen flat, and swear to fucking Christ, one day Jared might just have to kill him.

Because taking things personally is also a Texas Trait.

And every single thing about Jensen begs to be taken personally.

 

_You remember the one about the blonde with the poodle –_

 

"House rules."

This is how Jensen introduces himself their first day on set.

"House rules are these." He ticks them off one by one. Jared stares at the silver ring glinting on Jensen's thumb. "Don't hork my beer, don't fuck with my tunes, and don't hog the Cheetos. And we're good and I won't kill you."

Jared doesn't know whether to return the grin or knock Jensen on his ass. "You forgot one thing," he says instead.

The space between Jensen's brows disappears. "What?"

"Don't fuck your woman?"

"Ah, that." If possible, Jensen's shit-eating grin gets even wider. "You ain't even got to worry there, son. I keep my women far too satisfied to go sniffing after amateurs like yourself."

 

_All's fair in love and war. And chess, but that's kinda the same thing –_

 

"He's just...man, I don't know what he is, really." Jared squeezes the phone between his ear and shoulder as he kicks the refrigerator door shut. Bacon sizzles and pops on the stove. Harley and Sadie watch in hopeful silence, tails wagging almost in time.

"Articulate much?" Chad replies on the other end of the line, laughter rich in his voice.

"Shut up."

"Dude, it's 7am. On a freakin' Saturday. I will _damn_ well make fun of you."

"Yeah, yeah. Anyway," Jared says, switching back to his current favorite subject, "dude, you should _see_ him." He deftly cracks two eggs, one-handed, on the side of the skillet. "I mean, everybody loves the guy. Everybody. From Kelly, our makeup girl to fucking Pete, man, in catering. Every fucking body. It's like the whole set is his best friend."

"Sounds like you're jealous."

"Not!" The denial is vehement, heart-felt. "But he's driving my ass nuts. What do you know about him?"

"Nothing, really," Chad says. Jared can picture him scratching his chin the way he does when he's thinking. "Uh...we never worked together. Why, you want me to dig up some dirt?"

And this is why Chad's his best friend, man. "Would you?"

"I knew there was a reason for this fucking call," Chad swears, then he chuckles again. "Bet you're doing it."

"What?" Jared flips his eggs over, liberally sprinkling garlic salt and pepper over the top. Harley lets out a single, pleading bark. Jared ignores him.

"That, y'know, man, that _thing_ you do, where you watch someone..."

"No, it's not like that."

"Whatever, man. Don't even."

"I don't! I mean, like, _watch_ him or anything. It's just that, well. Really, I mean. Think about it." Jared transfers the bacon to a paper towel, and, because he really is a sap at heart where his dogs are concerned, he dangles two slices. Harley and Sadie snatch them with a single jaw snap, then trot off. Ungrateful mutts.

"We're together. All. The. Time," he continues, transferring the phone to his other ear. "Night, day, weekends, holidays, every fucking day."

"So you _are_ doing it."

"Maybe." Fucking Chad. Jared frowns as he turns off the stove. "So what if I am?"

"Dude, you gotta find a new hobby," Chad tells him. "Psychoanalyzing people is only gonna drive you nuts."

"Just wanna know what makes him tick is all." Because come hell or high water, he's going to figure Jensen out.

The first step to a successful campaign is knowing what you're up against.

 

_Never let the truth get in the way of a good story –_

 

"Dude, even my _dogs_ like you."

"Why wouldn't they?" Jensen fishes another beer out of the cooler and tilts his face up towards the sun. They're both shirtless, soaking up a few rays in Jensen's back yard. For once, it's not overcast. "I'm a likeable guy," Jensen continues. Muscle flexes as he stretches out on his lawn chair.

"How many crunches you do?"

Jensen tilts his head and lazily opens one eye. "J, are you checking me out?"

"What?! No." Jared sputters, blushes, then resolutely closes his eyes. Sunspots immediately flicker behind his eyelids. "Just wondering is all," he says, mentally kicking himself for letting Jensen fluster him. What he gets for accepting Jensen's invitation to hang out with a few cold ones. "Thinking about changing up my routine a little."

"Relax, man. Just razzing ya." Jensen's drawl drifts, low and friendly, between them. "I'm up to about one-fifty."

One-fifty. Jared nods. The mental image of Jensen's sun-bronzed six-pack flashes in his mind.

He can top that easy.

 

_A job well done is still just a job –_

 

"That looked really great, but how about we go for something a little less Rambo and a little more gunslinger," David's saying, using one of the prop guns to demonstrate his point. Jared nods, listens closely and mimes the action.

"Better," David nods. "Now, when you bust in the door..."

Jared's attention snags on the glint of Jensen's thumb ring as Jensen cocks his .45 and pulls back the hammer. The gun fits Jensen's hand like he was born wielding one. He cradles it like a lover.

Jared blinks when fingers snap in front of his face. "J, dude, you with us?" Jensen asks, slight frown marring the space between his brows.

"Yeah." Jared clears his throat, gives David an apologetic shrug. "Gunslinger, huh."

 

_Those people that will tell you moderation in all things? Too scared to live –_

 

It's drizzling, sky an iron curtain of low-hanging clouds, and Jared shakes damp bangs from his face as he twists on his skates, hefting his hockey stick like a weapon. Eddie skates by him with a gleeful whoop, Tony in full pursuit. Jared gives chase, but it's too late – Eddie deftly passes the puck to Jensen, who skirts around everyone else like a pro, zigzagging like he'd been born on skates.

And really, Jared's had just about enough of this shit.

He hits Jensen hard enough to numb his shoulder. Hard enough to bruise.

The body slam sends Jensen sprawling on the asphalt in a pile of flailing limbs. Time freezes, then sputters again on a crack of thunder as Jensen lifts his head. The corner of his lip is bleeding. Jared watches in a sort of numb fascination as Jensen swipes at the blood with the back of his hand. The look in flashing green eyes is inscrutable.

Jared stares back, mesmerized, and waits for the guilt to set in.

Of course, it doesn't.

But he knows the rules of the game. So, he mumbles an apology – _sorry, dude_ – as he holds out a hand to Jen –

– and is flat on his back a second later, wheezing for air, as Jensen slams him into the wet pavement.

Jensen presses against him in one long line of muscle and heat, presses him _into_ the road, and Jared can fucking well see stars. _What the fuck –_ He blinks, focuses (a little cross-eyed) at Jensen, and Jensen's breath is warm, his voice carries the weight of secrets as he murmurs, "Two can play dirty" –

And, just as quick, he's on his feet, with that trademark cock-knocking grin in place.

Jared stays on the ground for a minute and tries to catch his breath.

That night at the bar, Jensen takes great delight in telling the story of Jared's sneaky ways and his sneakier revenge to anyone that'll listen. Which is, of course, everyone. Jared avoids the adoring crowd of sycophants and stays in the corner by himself, downing shot after shot until he's slurring Texas. It doesn't improve his mood. When he finally stumbles home, alone and forgotten (of course), he's genuinely surprised he makes it to the right house.

He trips up the stairs on the way into his bedroom. Sadie lifts her head, then lowers it, curling next to Harley on the bed. Even his dogs know he's plowed.

He fumbles with his shoes, which feel too small, and his belt buckle, which refuses to unfasten until the third try. When he pulls his shirt off, the sudden rush of pain has him hissing. He looks in the mirror, at the new bruises, blushing shocking purple and vivid red, and it's like getting hit again. He can almost feel Jensen's body against his, slamming into him. The memory is enough to make him lose his breath.

He passes out with Jensen's name, like a curse, on his lips.

The next morning, hung over, with a throat as dry as the Sahara and skin that feels far too small to hold his aching head, Jared sleepwalks his way into the costume trailer. He can still taste the sweet afterburn of Jaeger on his tongue. He is never drinking again.

Jensen's already in the trailer, of course, (bet _he_ doesn't get anything as mundane as hangovers) pulling off his t-shirt to slip into Dean's. Jared pauses in the middle of taking off his own shirt, catches sight of the bruise blossoming on Jensen's collarbone and shoulder in the mirror.

He catches Jensen's eyes, watches, helpless, frozen, as Jensen's gaze flickers to Jared's mottled shoulder, which throbs in response. The visceral thrill ( _I did that, I caused that, I marred him_ ) is like an electric shock.

Later, Jared will think of them as matching tattoos.

 

_The only thing that should feel better than sex is victory –_

 

Pool halls all over the world are just alike. From San Antonio to Los Angeles to Vancouver fucking British Columbia, every pool hall has the same sounds, the same feel. The only difference is that this particular one doesn't have the resonant curl of smoke the ones back home do. Jared misses the blue tinge to the air. But then, he misses a lot of things.

His gaze jerks back, involuntarily, to Jensen. Fucking Jensen, who's licking his fingers clean with a reverence that's normally reserved for Acts of Contrition. There's orange powder on Jensen's thumb ring. Jared wants to hide the bowl of Cheetos.

"Anyone up for a game?" Eric asks, jerking his head towards an empty table.

"Yeah, you bet," Jensen replies, even as Jared's 'no' dies on his lips. "Me 'n' J here'll take you on."

Jared sputters into his drink. "What?"

Jensen claps him on the back and winks. "You _can_ play pool, right?"

Jared jerks out of the heated press of Jensen's palm. "Betcher _ass_." He wants to remind Jensen that he's just as Texas as Jensen is.

"Thatta boy." Jensen turns to Eric and Joe, who are already standing. "Let's do it. My money's on Big J and me knocking your dicks in the dirt."

It would fucking figure that Jensen can play pool as well as he can play street hockey. He moves around the table like a general planning an attack, all easy grace and unrivaled concentration, with perfect English on his spin and an eye for the corner pockets.

That is, when he's not busy ogling the busty waitress at the other end of the bar. Jared has to shake his head in wonder – teased hair, double D cups, short shorts, high heels – hell, even Jensen's choice in women is straight up Texas.

"Whaddaya think?" Jensen asks, leaning against his cue stick as he surveys the table. His voice is pitched low and serious, like the fate of the free world rests on the game. "Set up the three in the middle pocket or bank it to get the seven?"

"Sinking the seven's trickier," Jared replies, voice mimicking Jensen's. He shifts closer without thinking about it. "But if you make it, it'll set you up real nice for the two."

"What I was thinking." Jensen winks then, like they're a team or something, and steps up to the table. Jared shakes his head, impressed in spite of himself, as Jensen bends over, smooth as silk, and banks the cue in a picture-perfect spiral.

Needless to say, he makes the shot.

 

_If you don't know the words, just hum along –_

 

The house is way too quiet.

It's Jared's own fault, of course, for not heading out to have a beer with Kim and some of the crew guys, but that doesn't make the house any less...

Yeah. Quiet. Still.

Even the dogs are keeping to themselves, curled in an incestuous heap on the sofa, oblivious to the restlessness under Jared's skin. He stalks through the living room, long strides eating the carpet, mentally discarding this idea and that. He could read – or not. He could try to get to the next level on Hot Shots Golf! – but his heart's not really in it. He could get drunk – but drinking alone is a pathetic way to pass the time.

When the phone rings, he all but pounces on it.

"Get dressed. I'll pick you up in ten."

This is Jensen's idea of asking. Jared's so happy to be rescued that, for once, he doesn't give Jensen shit for it.

The bar is one Jared's never heard of, if it even _has_ a name. Some hole in the wall joint with an outdated jukebox and real cork dartboards. The tables are all scarred wood, the booths nice and deep, and the only beers on tap are Molson and Bud, both served with an indifferent slap by a roughneck bartender in a faded John Deere hat. The place is more country than country. All it's missing is a sawdust dance floor.

Jensen rubs his hands together in glee as he surveys the lay of the land, and Jared just watches in silence, because, really, he hasn't seen a joint like this since Texas. Figures Jensen would be the one to find it.

"You grab the beer, I'll get us a board," Jensen says. "Hope you're as good at darts as you are at pool." He steps away with a wink and a smack on Jared's ass.

Jared wonders why the hell he's even here. Jensen has to have easier targets.

Jensen is, in typical fashion, a damn good darts player. Arm as steady as a rock, with an eagle eye for precision. Which, shouldn't bother Jared a bit, since he's an ace himself most nights. But the vague feeling of restlessness won't leave him alone, even after a shot and a chaser.

He watches the muscles in Jensen's forearm bunch and flex as he aims his next shot. And prays for him to miss.

"Fuck yeah, man!" Jensen exclaims, throwing his hands up in victory. His t-shirt rides up, exposing a tanned strip of hipbone. "Nailed that green bad boy." When he turns to Jared, his smile lights up the smoky room.

Jared forces the return smile. "Yeah. Great shot."

Jensen pulls his darts out and sits at the table. "Your turn, J."

Joy.

But Jared's nothing if not stubborn. And competitive. And, really, he's not that far behind on points (only 43, he reminds himself). He angles his wrist, takes a deep breath. Clears his mind, finds his inner Mr. Miyagi.

Double 14.

Jared can hear Jensen's low whistle of admiration, and the sound loosens something inside of him. _Gonna own this fucking game_. He lines up his next shot.

That's when he hears the humming.

The throw is wide by a half-inch. He whips around to tell Jensen off for cheating, and almost mows him down. His eyes narrow. "Hello, personal space here."

Jensen just steps closer, breath hot against his ear, fluttering his hair. When he starts to sing, it's like a down and dirty sex act that's eighteen shades of illegal, and not just in the Red States. " _And they know just where to go when they need their lovin' man...they know I'm doin' it for free_..."

Jared tilts his head down, annoyance forgotten, the next lines out of his mouth before he's even aware he's singing. " _I give 'em cat scratch fever, they got it bad scratch fever..._ "

"Right _on_." Jensen's grin is gleeful, a little lewd, and Jared blinks, stumbles a half step as he's blasted by the heat of it. "Didn't picture you for the Pantera type."

"Ted Nugent, motherfucker."

"I know." From this close, Jared can see the flecks of jade in Jensen's eyes. "But Pantera does a rockin' cover." He flicks Jared's nose. Jared knocks his hand aside. "And it's fun as hell to see you all riled up."

Every bit of restless anger comes crashing back into him. "You know...it's a miracle that no one's killed you yet."

Jensen steps back. He's still smiling, but there's something different in it now, something Jared can't quite place, and he shivers without knowing why. "Not yet," Jensen says. "But I hear miracles happen every day."

They play another game in uncomfortable silence. Jensen wins again, but Jared's too busy trying to find a way to break the ice between them to care. He thinks maybe about telling Jensen about his mood – sorry, man, not the best company, it's not you – but Jensen disappears ( _need another round_ ) before he has the right phrase formulated.

Jared plays a half-hearted game against himself before he realizes that Jensen hasn't come back.

When Jared finally finds him, ten minutes later, he's not at all surprised that Jensen's slouched in a back booth with some stacked blonde practically in his lap. Her lips, full and open over Jensen's ear, are painted cotton candy pink. Her micro-mini matches the lipstick. Jared wonders if she charges by the hour.

"Am I interrupting?" he asks, pissed at his peevish tone, at Jensen for up and leaving him out to fucking dry for some two-bit whore with cocksucking lips.

The blonde giggles, high-pitched, and her heavily lashed eyes rake him from head to toe. Jensen follows suit. Jared resists the urge to fidget. He feels like maybe he should start stripping or something.

"Your friend interesting in joining us?" the girl asks, and even her voice is pure 1-900.

"Nah," Jensen drawls lazily, lolling his head to give Jared an inscrutable look. "J over here's a _good_ boy."

"Too bad."

"Yeah, that's what I keep telling him."

Fuck this. And _fuck_ Jensen. "Well, if you don't need –"

"Ah, c'mon, man. We's just talkin'." Jensen untangles himself from the blonde's clutches. She lounges back, watching both of them with interest. When Jensen stands, Jared can smell her perfume, and the heavier scent of her arousal.

He walks home alone.

The next day, Jensen shows up for work with a hickey-sized bite mark on his thigh and shadows in his eyes.

Neither of them mentions it.

 

_The only difference between winning and losing is perception. This is, of course, utter bullshit –_

 

"Here." Jared tosses the wrapped box in Jensen's lap.

Jensen tilts his shades down. "Well, hell, it ain't even Christmas."

"It's not a Christmas gift."

"Oh ho." Jensen lifts the package and gives it an experimental shake. The silver of his thumb ring winks in the sun. His clothes may be Dean, but the ring is pure Jensen.

"Well. Open it." Jared takes the director's chair next to Jensen. Around them, the crew is hustling to set the next shot before the light goes.

Jensen rips at the brown wrapping paper, then looks down at the PSP box for a long time before glancing up. His look is pure mischief. "This mean we're going steady now?"

"Fuck you." But Jared smiles around it. Feels good. "Thought I'd level the playing field is all."

"Is that what this is?"

"Well, I figured it'd be good for your ego to let it get kicked every once in awhile."

"Is that so?" And Jared can see the moment when the challenges becomes too much for Jensen to resist.

 

_Never bet against the house. Unless you've got one helluva hand –_

 

"Check out the rack on that broad."

Jared doesn't bother to turn from perusing his (admittedly) small pile of chips. Instead, he watches as Jensen blows the girl a kiss, lips puckering obscenely, but apparently it's alright to be obscene when you're Jensen, because he doesn't get slapped for his trouble. One of these days, Jensen's going to get the smackdown he deserves, and Jared just hopes he's around when it happens. He wishes Chris would get back from the bar with the damn beers already.

"And that's how we roll in my woods, my brother," Jensen sighs happily.

"Uh huh."

"Hey, don't be macking if you can't take it."

"Macking?" Jared doesn't know whether to laugh or cry at this point, because Jen manages to make even that tired-ass word sound new. "Jen...man...you're just so...old-school."

"Old-school?" Jen's eyebrows, expressive even in the best of times, snap together. "Bitch, I will _show_ you old-school."

The grin is wide, combative. "Bring it."

"Son, what'd I tell you about baiting the young'uns?" Christian fucking Kane, man, legend of the WB, finally strolls, loose-limbed, back to the table with three fresh bottles of Bud.

Even Jensen's friends are cooler than Jesus. It would be ridiculous if it was anyone else.

"Young'un can take care of himself," Jensen replies with a raised eyebrow in Jared's direction.

Jared doesn't know whether to hit him for embarrassing him in front of Chris (Jen's 'best friend') or to play it up. In the end, he does neither.

"We playing or not?" Chris asks.

Despite the fact that Jared's been losing steadily all night, he nods. He comforts himself with the knowledge that Jensen may be good at every goddamn thing under the sun, but Chris is kicking both their asses at Texas Hold 'Em ( _amateur's game_ , Chris had scoffed, but it hadn't stopped him from wiping the floor with each hand). Man's a fucking card shark.

It's like Jensen and Chris are the perfect redneck or something. Charming, talented, good-looking, self-confident, and really, it must suck being them sometimes.

Yeah. What the fuck ever.

"Deal 'em out, brother," Chris grins, tapping the deck. "Haven't won enough drinking money yet."

Jensen just laughs. "Gonna lose this round, you know," he states, flipping the cards over with careless skill.

"Oh, now, I know you weren't just challenging me."

"Hey, I remember Biloxi."

"Jesus, man, that was a good time." Chris shows brilliant white teeth when he smiles. "What'd we pull that night, like three fifty each?"

It's like they're talking in shorthand or code or something that Jared can't translate. He wonders if they'd even notice if he left the table.

"J, man, you anteing in or not?"

The words are out before Jared can call them back. "The fuck do you care, man? You don't even want me to play."

"Woah, woah." Chris holds up both hands. "What crawled up your ass?"

Jensen just looks at him, head tilted slightly like Jared's a puzzle he can't quite figure out. "Sorry," Jared mumbles, feeling vaguely ashamed of himself. "Just, uh…yeah." He tosses his chips into the middle of the table, and forces himself to smile. "It's nothing."

When their waitress comes around again, he orders a double shot to go with his beer.

 

_Many things are half the battle. But winning is all of it –_

 

"Quick, name the thing you miss most about home. And pass me the quarter-inch ratchet."

This is Jensen's idea of small talk.

Jared slaps the ratchet in Jensen's palm and leans in beside him under the hood. They both reek of transmission fluid, oil and gas. It's a comfortable smell, reminds Jared of Saturday mornings with his Dad, tinkering with some old beat-up piece of junk. "My mom's brunswick stew. You?"

"Chicken fried steak covered in gravy."

"Ah, _fuck_." Jared's sigh borders on blasphemy. "I'm starving now."

Jensen finishes tightening the o-ring and sits back to observe his handiwork. His forearms are streaked with dirt. His cheek has a smudge of oil, and his grin would be ten year-old boy if not for that ever-present glint. "Yeah, me too."

"Why do you think we both miss food the most?"

"Well, it's like this." Jensen wraps a sweaty arm around Jared's neck. Jared's so filthy he doesn't even bother to shrug him off. By now, he just goes along with it. "Eating? Second best thing you can do with your mouth."

It's like Jensen's a scab, man. And Jared's just dumb – or stubborn – enough to keep picking. "And the first?"

Jensen just smirks.

 

_Remember where you come from, even if you get lost along the way –_

 

Another Saturday night, another dollar. Or something like that anyway, Jared thinks. At the very least, another hard-earned week laid to rest, another Saturday night at the bar, drinking it all away. When he opens his eyes, the first thing he sees is the smudge of freckles across the bridge of Jensen's nose.

"I never made it with anyone in Delta Zeta," he finally says.

"That a sorority?" Jensen asks.

"Yeah. Over at St. Mary's."

"And you never made it with any of them?" Jensen wags his finger. "Shocking."

Jared makes a point of tapping at Jensen's shot glass. "I don't see you drinking."

"Well, I didn't grow up in San Antone, now, did I?"

"What, they don't have sororities out Dallas-way?"

"I believe it's my turn, right?" Jensen asks. "I never got caught having sex."

"Never?"

"You drinking or not?"

Jared glances at his glass, then at Jensen, then shakes his head, bangs falling into his eyes. "Not."

"Ohho...Big J's got a story." Jensen swings his chair back on two legs. His thighs bunch and flex in response. "Give it up, man."

The look in his eyes is one Jared's never seen before. By now, he thinks of himself as an expert.

"Not much to tell. I didn't get caught."

"Ahhh, but you _almost_ got caught, and I bet it was close, wasn't it?" Jared keeps his eyes on Jensen's hands. "Were you at a party?"

"Maybe." Jared shifts uncomfortably.

"Were you drunk?"

"No."

"Stoned?"

"X," Jared mumbles, impatiently pushing his hair out of his face. "Look, it's no big deal, alright. We were in the bathroom and she was going down on me and we forgot to lock the door is all."

"Bet you were so turned on that you came real quick, didn't you?" Jensen's twang is never more pronounced than when he's got hold of a good story.

"Yeah," Jared admits quietly.

"Kinky freak."

"Blow me."

"Well, if I do, I'll be locking the bathroom door." Jensen grins. "Is it your turn or mine?"

"Mine." Jared tries desperately to change the subject. "I've, um, I've never gotten stoned and fucked anyone at a Kane show."

"Well, fuck, that ain't a secret, Chris blurted it out last time he's here," Jensen complains, and downs his shot, wiping salt from his mouth with the back of his hand. A little clings next to his lower lip.

"Who'd you fuck?"

Jensen shakes his head. "This ain't twenty questions, bro. I've never gone down on a girl in her parent's house while getting ready for Sunday church."

"Fucker, I should've never told you that." The tequila still stings a little sliding down his throat.

"Well, now we're even." Jared still can't read the look on Jensen's face. "Your turn."

Jared tries desperately to think of the most embarrassing thing he can – _I've never fucked a sheep, I never dressed in women's clothing_ –

Jensen licks his lips, tongue catching on the stray bit of salt.

" – I've never sucked a guy off."

There's a split second of stillness. A half-assed apology ( _joke, man, don't get your panties in a twist_ ) is already on Jared's tongue. Then _ohJesus_ Jensen picks up the shot glass. He doesn't bother with the salt this time. His eyes never leave Jared's.

Any sound that Jared could have made dies in his throat.

"My turn, isn't it?" Jensen asks, and Jared nods jerkily, staring at Jensen's mouth, trying (and failing) to keep the image of those lips wrapped full and tight around –

"I never jerked off in the shower thinking about you."

Sweetbaby Jesus.

Jared can't look away, can't breathe, can't think. There isn't enough oxygen in this bar, hell, maybe in the world. And Jensen? Well, he's just _sitting_ there, waiting.

Waiting.

"Where," Jared licks dry lips, watching in helpless desire as Jensen's eyes track the movement, "where did you jerk off while thinking about me, then?"

Jensen shakes his head. "We're not playing that game, J. You're not drinking."

Jared looks down at his glass. Thinks about Jensen's hands. About Jensen's thumb ring rolling over his cock. About all the sounds he knows he could get Jensen to make.

He downs the shot.

"Well, I'll be damned." The throaty quality to Jensen's voice reminds Jared of velvet-rough sex.

"My turn?" he rasps. Jensen nods. When Jared meets his eyes, there's no hesitation. "I've never wanted to fuck a guy until I met you."

Jensen keeps his eyes on Jared's as he raises the glass.

Jared calls for the check.

 

_So, the moral to the story is this –_

 

They smash into the wall, each other, clawing and biting and Jensen. Won't. Stay. Still. He's twisting and grappling and biting Jared's lower lip and saying _insane_ things – 'wanna fuck you so hard, fuck you up, want you on your knees, boy' – and if Jared can't find a way to shut him up –

He unzips Jensen's fly and fumbles forward and then Jensen's cock is in his hand, thick and curving perfectly in his palm and he surges, mumbling _JenJenJen_ into the tight afterthought of space between them. Quick slide down, harder slide up and it's...

Lips and teeth roam over him in small bites, quick nips, possessing him an inch at a time and Jesus _fuck_ , Jensen's mouth.

And this is crazy, right, because he doesn't even _like_ guys and here he is, going for the gold in handjobs and, judging from the way Jensen's moaning and bucking, he's damn well going to get it.

_Jared, Jesus Jared –_

Is there a sweeter sound than that? Than cocky motherfucking Jensen, all wild and clawing against him, and Jared dives back in for another heady taste. Jensen meets him halfway, crashing into the kiss, tongues slip-sliding and tangling with competitive jabs, lips sticky and wet from each other.

One flick, two, then a long, slow pull – Jared works Jensen's cock like a seasoned pro, like he's been jerking him off for years instead of only a few minutes and Jensen must like something about it, because he keeps moaning, twisting, shoving at Jared's clothing, muttering curses and promises in the same desperate kiss.

"C'mon, c'mon," Jared breathes, panting like he's running a race, mouthing at the salty patch of skin just under Jensen's jaw. Stubble rasps under his tongue, weird, different, and the most natural thing in the world.

He keeps his eyes glued to Jensen's face as Jensen jerks, sputters and comes over his hand.

The feeling of victory is nothing next to the clawing need inside him for more.

"Again," he snarls, and starts moving again, palm slick with sweat and come. Jensen's eyes roll back even as his hips snap forward. It's a sight Jared could seriously get used to.

"Naked." Just the way Jensen growls the word revs Jared so hard that he's surprised he's not jizzing in his jeans.

They tug and pull at clothing, fingers clumsy and fumbling with need. Fabric tears, and it's Jared's favorite shirt, but he really doesn't give a fuck. He runs desperate hands along Jensen's flank, feeling the solid line of muscle under his palm. It's like touching warm marble. It's like touching sin.

"Oh _fuck_ yeah," Jensen says when they're finally naked and facing each other, staring at Jared like he's the answer to every unanswered prayer in the universe.

Then Jensen drops to his knees.

"Turn around," he commands, the words low and hot.

Jared reacts instinctively, turning and bracing his arms on the wall. He shivers and waits, sweat rolling between his shoulder blades. When he feels the soft press of lips against the small of his back, it takes everything he has not to beg.

Then they move lower.

"Fuck, I've been wanting to do this..."

What the he-- oh. OhGodoh. SweetbabyJesusfuckingMaryandalltheSaints --

Jensen's tongue darts in, a quick foray, then stabs deep and hard, like he means it, like he's got a point to make, and Jared's scream bubbles up from his toes, gets lodged somewhere around his ribs. His breath hitches, stops, pleaseJenplease, and he pushes his hips back, rocking into the sublime and utter _wrongness_ of Jensen's tongue fucking his ass with steady, sleek jabs.

Jared scrabbles at the wall, clawing marks into the plaster. His bangs fall into his face, already damp with sweat. He's so hard he's shaking, still gasping for air, and Jensen will _not_ stop. Fast, then slow, he tongues the small ring of muscle, then goes in for the kill, curling his tongue in some wildly wicked manner that has stars bursting behind Jared's eyelids.

He gurgles Jensen's name when he comes.

Jensen hasn't even touched his cock yet. Jared means to correct that as soon as humanly possible.

He's still shivering in the aftermath when Jensen slides up behind him, a slither of heat and promise, wrapping his hand around Jared's sticky cock. The cool reality of his thumb ring sliding over needy flesh is like an answered prayer.

"Not done with you yet," Jensen promises, thick with lust, in Jared's ear, and that's all it takes to get Jared hard again.

"Not, huh?" he replies, because that's as much coherency as he can manage with Jensen's thumb rolling over the head of his cock like some damn pornstar.

"Waited too long." Jared shivers when Jensen bites his shoulder. "Drove me so fucking _crazy_ , man. Wanted to bend you over every flat surface and fuck the taste out of your mouth."

Jared groans and twists, turns around. Thank God the wall's still holding him up. The look in Jensen's eyes is predatory, possessive. "Me first," he states, because there's no fucking way he's letting Jensen win this round, too.

Jensen, being Jensen, has to go and up the stakes. "Make me."

Jared's never been so glad in his life of his extra couple of inches of height and twenty-odd pounds of muscle. He surges forward, pushing Jensen into the middle of the room, and they're wrestling, naked and slippery, and Jensen doesn't fight fair at all, but Jared? Yeah, he's got an older brother himself, so it's not like he's new to this, and finally _finally_ he's found something that he's better at than Jensen. He uses a leg sweep to knock Jensen off his feet, and he tumbles after, using superior body weight to pin Jensen down. He stretches Jensen's arms over his head, locking them into place with his hands. The look in Jensen's eyes is hot enough to melt steel.

"Got me here," Jensen rasps, giving an experimental tug. Jared tightens his hold as a warning. "What're you planning on doing with me?"

"Shut up," because, dammit, Jared's tired of Jensen always getting the last word. He bends his head, uses surprise as a weapon to suckle on Jensen's tongue like it's a piece of taffy.

He can't believe he's here. He can't believe it took him so long.

Jensen's mouth is hard, furiously moving over his like a battle he means to win. He hooks one ankle around Jared's legs, holding him in place, like Jared's going anywhere. He's not fucking moving until he's had his fill, and maybe not even then.

He grinds his hips down, groaning into the next kiss when his cock rubs against Jensen's. Jensen's still moaning, urging him on between each slick meeting of lips – "c'mon, do it, _do_ it" – and the echo of the words throbs through Jared like a jackhammer.

"Got anything?" he asks, the words barely audible, barely human. He'll go in all Brokeback if he has to, because there's no way Jensen's leaving this floor without Jared fucking him into next week.

Jensen jerks his head in the direction of the hallway. "Bedroom," he manages, before surging forward, scraping teeth over Jared's throat.

"Too far," Jared groans, thrusting forward reflexively. FuckJenfuck... "Stay here."

Rolling off of Jensen's body is the most heroic act he's ever committed. He doesn't wait around to see if Jensen will obey him. It only takes a minute to find the bottle of 'Wet' (in the drawer right next to the bed), but it's far too long.

When he makes it back to the living room, hand slick with lube already working on his cock, he stops short, breath catching in his throat. Jensen's right where Jared'd left him – stretched naked on the carpet, all sun-kissed skin and sleek muscle – looking at him with glittering eyes that promise every vice known to man.

Jensen's gaze flickers, drops to Jared's hand, still comfortably curled around his cock. "Am I supposed to come fetch?"

Jared moves into the room, dropping the bottle by Jensen's shoulder as he drops to his knees between Jensen's spread legs. "The fuck did I tell you about shutting up," he answers, scooting closer. He hooks his arms under Jensen's legs, pushes forward, angling, seeking, and it's not the most comfortable fit in the world, but Jared's had enough with waiting.

They both groan, pain and pleasure warring, at the first shallow thrust. "So...Jesustight," Jared grits out. Jensen's ass clamps over his cock like a vise.

Jensen doesn't answer; he just throws his head back, baring a throat glistening with sweat as his Adam's apple bobs with inarticulate noises. Jared pushes deeper, rocking his hips forward, using his hold on Jensen's legs as leverage. He leans in, licking at the raspy underside of Jensen's jaw, sliding all the way home until his balls are resting comfortably against Jensen's ass. "What was it you were saying about fucking the taste out of my mouth?"

"J..."

"Cause, yeah. I like that idea," and Jared has no clue where this alpha streak is coming from, but he's not about to argue. He bites down on Jensen's collarbone as he pulls almost completely out, then slams forward. Jensen jerks and gasps under him. He's almost completely folded in half, helpless and writhing and yeah. Oh yeah. Jared thinks he could definitely get used to this.

He starts talking as he fucks Jensen across the carpet, straight vulgar porn falling from his lips – "Such a tight ass, feels so good fucking you, such a fucking whore for my dick, yeah, that's it, take my cock, take it" – and his balls slap rhythmically against tight skin with each hard, driving thrust. Jensen keeps moving and bucking under him, scratching at his arms, shoulders, pulling him down for a heated, open-mouthed kiss that incinerates every blood cell in Jared's body. When he inhales, desperate for breath, all he can smell, taste, is Jensen and sex.

"Jensen...look...look at me." Dazed eyes, bright emerald with need, snap open, lock with his. "Is _this_..." his hips snap, quick and brutal "...what you wanted?"

Jensen shakily nods.

Another thrust. "Tell me."

"I...fuck, J..."

Another thrust, hard, fast, sharp. " _Tell_ me, goddammit."

"Yesssss," Jensen hisses, the sound cutting from between clenched teeth. "Please, J...please..."

Jared lets go of one of Jensen's legs and reaches between them, sliding a possessive hand over Jensen's cock. "C'mon," he urges, "fuck my cock, man...move with me."

They set a brutal, hard pace, the movements sloppy, no finesse, only raw need. Jensen moves with him, groaning incoherently, and it's the hottest thing Jared's ever heard. He glances down and watches the slip and slide of his cock, mesmerized at how tightly Jensen grips him, like he'll never let go, like they'll always be fused together, just like this, bound by sweat and come. He times his thrusts with the slide of his fist over Jensen's cock, push/pull, twist/counter-twist. He thinks he could fuck Jensen all night.

Then Jensen shudders, jerks, mouth open, eyes glazed as he comes over Jared's palm. His muscles clamp tight around Jared's cock, and that's all it takes.

He feels like he's dying. He feels like a god.

For a long time, neither one moves. Jared can feel Jensen taking shaky breaths beneath him, the sound low and soothing. He tilts his head into the crook of Jensen's neck, inhaling slowly, inhaling Jensen. He thinks he could stay sprawled on top of Jensen for the rest of his life and be fine with that.

Jensen murmurs something indistinct, and he lifts his arms, awkwardly patting Jared on the back before sliding them around Jared's waist. It's nice, cozy almost, except that Jared wants to do it again as soon as possible. "Huh," he finally manages.

"I think my ass has carpet embedded in it."

The snort of laughter takes Jared by surprise. "Zat so?" he chuckles, shoulders shaking at the mental image.

"Not gonna be able to move tomorrow."

"Good."

"Took you long enough."

Lifting his head is an effort, but Jared does it anyway. Jensen's smiling up at him, that same self-satisfied, dimpled grin, but it doesn't quite bother Jared the way it used to. "Took me long enough?"

"Mmhmm." Jensen stretches underneath him, and the movement has him tightening around Jared's cock again. The shock of it zings through him like a lightning bolt. "Didn't think you were ever gonna get it."

Jared thinks he should have some witty response for Jensen's satisfied smirk, but he's feeling pretty damn satisfied himself. It helps that he's hard again, and that Jensen's already moving with him. He rocks his hips forward, bends his head. "Stop talking," he murmurs, and muffles Jensen's reply with his mouth.

 

_Life does tend to throw some weird-ass shit at you when you're not looking –_

 

The thing about Jensen is this.

There's just no stopping him. He's like a force of nature – a tsunami or a twister or a goddamn 18-wheeler with no brakes. Either batten down, move the hell out of the way, or go along for the ride.

Because fucking with nature is never a bright idea.

**Author's Note:**

> McG's friends call him either G or Joe. For those interested, the Pantera version of 'Cat Scratch Fever' can be found [here](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3twRkEBvnfI).
> 
> I can't say enough good things about Dee's excellent and thorough ~~hand-holding~~ and beta. Blame Mcee for the idea, and the title (this fic is ALL for you, darlin'). You can also blame Dee for the length (all donations can be made to Saint Dee of the Holy Coven of Pretty). 
> 
> Or, y'know, blame Jensen for everything. Because I do.


End file.
